


Protocol and Consent

by viklikesfic (v_angelique)



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Crossdressing, D/s, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-11
Updated: 2010-01-11
Packaged: 2017-10-06 13:45:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/v_angelique/pseuds/viklikesfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Repost from the trek kink meme, someone wanted Chekov serving Pike domestically and then "the other way."  The other way will have to come in a sequel, but here, have some snark and innuendo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Protocol and Consent

When Pike asked if there was an ensign free who might be able to help him with a few things as he transitioned to life back on Earth and, at least for the time being, in a wheelchair, this was not exactly what he had in mind.

Pavel Chekov is far too intelligent to be playing nursemaid to a beat-up old admiral, and they both know it. But Pike doesn't ask for someone else, and Chekov doesn't complain. In fact, Pike's pretty sure Chekov wouldn't be here if he didn't want to be.

And yes, Pike has spinal injuries, but he's not dead. He can still get a hard-on, and Chekov's still just a little sweet and a little tart, and a whole lot of trouble if Pike continues to entertain the thoughts he's been entertaining. Sweet, earnest Chekov acts as if he hasn't a clue what's going on (and okay, he probably doesn't). He brings Pike a neat little tea service with milk and sugar and a tiny spoon on a tray, and he pours out leaning slightly over the low table so that his ass is _right_ in Pike's face before Pike rolls up to take his tea, and his sweet little smile never dims. He's either a terrible cocktease, or terribly naïve.

The worst part of it though, is Chekov's form of address.

"Are you comfortable, Captain?"

"Can I get you a cushion, Captain?"

"Would you like me to order dinner, Captain?"

Gently, repeatedly, he reminds Chekov that he is no longer the captain of anything, and immediately following the reminder Chekov will call him Admiral a few times, but then the next day it will return. And again, and again, and so it goes.

Until one day Pike loses it. "Stop it, Chekov," he growls, levelling Chekov with a stare cool enough to freeze even that wide, eager smile.

"Pardon, Captain?" Chekov asks quietly, and Pike swears he can see the kid's lip tremble.

"I told you not to call me 'Captain.' I have told you _repeatedly_ not to call me Captain, Ensign Chekov."

There's a pause, and for a moment Pike thinks that it's never going to come up again, but then Chekov squares his chin and asks, defiantly. "Why?"

"Why?" Pike exclaims, feeling lunacy creeping in around the corners of his lust-addled eyes. "_Because_, Ensign, if you feel compelled to say the word 'keptin' one more time with that innocent little smile of yours, then I'm going to bend you over my knee and we'll just see what happens. And if I do that I won't be a captain, or an admiral, or even a free man anymore," he rants, breathing hard, eyes a little wild.

"Oh," Chekov says softly, standing stock still, just staring.

Pike sighs deeply and turns away. "Get me a beer, Pavel, and forget I ever said anything." He stays there, facing the window, until the footsteps fall away and his hands stop shaking. He has got to get himself under control.

~*~

The day after his outburst, Pike doesn't see Chekov all morning. He figures that the Ensign's requested a transfer, and only hopes he kept his cute little mouth shut. If they ask, he'll deny everything, but he doesn't want to do that to Chekov. His credibility would be shot, and Chekov's a good kid. He's going places in Starfleet, Pike's sure of that.

A girl brings him his lunch, and he's resigned himself to the fact that Chekov's not coming back when he hears her open the door to his rooms again, a few hours later. It's mid-afternoon, and he assumes she's come to take the lunch tray, or maybe bring him coffee. If it's a bath she's after, he's refusing on principle. A man has to retain some dignity.

It's a few minutes before he realizes that she's in the room, but she's not moving. It's completely silent. Pike frowns and wheels the chair in a half circle. He congratulates himself for not allowing his jaw to literally drop at what he sees.

It's not the girl.

It's Pavel Andreyevitch Chekov, standing in his living room in a maid's uniform. A very _female_ maid's uniform, with ruffles and a short skirt and cute little black flats and oh God, Chekov has definitely shaved his legs.

The world is ending.

No, wait, he's asleep. He pinches himself. The pain comes. He is not reassured.

"Hello, Captain," Chekov says quietly, approaching Pike's chair. He's wearing lipstick. Oh holy mother of Jesus.

Pike swallows. Words don't exactly come out, but who'd blame him?

"I have noticed a phenomenon," Chekov says calmly, circling the chair, his hands sliding onto Pike's shoulders from behind, fingers massaging sore muscles with an unsurprising tenderness. "When the boys are interested in me—when they are perving on me, as Hikaru says—they always say they would like to see me in a dress." He pauses, completes the circle of Pike's chair, comes to stand in front of it again. "Captain." Chekov's voice is low, whispery, deliberate. Pike finds his own reluctantly.

"You're seventeen."

"Today I am no longer seventeen. Today is my birthday, and there will be a very large party tonight. Many men and boys will be interested in fucking me. They would like to… pluck my cherry, do you say?"

Pike raises his eyebrows. "Close enough."

Chekov—beautiful, sweet, _phenomenal_ Chekov—slides his hand down Pike's chest, into his lap, and gives his erection a firm squeeze. There is something in his eyes that is very adult.

"I am not a virgin, captain."

"Praise the lord," Pike mutters, reaching out and grabbing a hold of the back of Chekov's neck, pulling him in for a kiss that smears waxy color across Pike's lips, tongues eager to taste, moans vibrating in his own throat and Chekov's. His hands find Chekov's hips, his slender waist, his nipples through the cute little embellished uniform. "What do people call you?" he murmurs, breathless.

"Call me, Captain?"

"Yeah. Not Pavel Andreyevitch, I know that, but what else are you called? Do you have a nickname?"

"The familiar form of my name is Pasha, Captain."

Pike allows himself a slow smile, leaning back in his chair, feeling very satisfied. "Perfect. Now lift up your skirt and let me see what I'm working with, Pasha."

It is with an inordinate amount of pleasure that Pike watches Chekov's blush spread, all the way down into the neckline of his uniform.

"Is that an order, Captain?"

"It's not an order as your captain or your admiral or anything else," Pike says clearly. "Is it an order? Yes."

As Chekov turns and bends over the coffee table, flipping his ruffles up and displaying an utter lack of underwear, Pike thanks God that he's found an eighteen-year-old whiz kid intelligent enough to know the difference.


End file.
